


I'll Be Home For Christmas

by richmahogany



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Friendship, Gen, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 20:23:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2825012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/richmahogany/pseuds/richmahogany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reese hasn't celebrated Christmas in a long time, and the most he can hope for this year is that he won't have to spend it on the streets drinking himself into a stupor. Getting shot just before does not improve things either. But then it turns into one of his best Christmases ever when he receives more than one unexpected gift.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Be Home For Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> Christmas 2011, which I reckon falls between "Number Crunch" and "Super". Apologies for the title straight out of the box of Corny Clichés. I had it as a working title, but it kind of fits, so I kept it.

When Reese woke up, he knew immediately that he wasn’t alone. He tried to jump out of bed and grab his gun from the nightstand all at once, but a sharp pain in his side pulled him up short. He fell back onto the pillow with a groan. Of course, he remembered where he was now. This was one of Finch’s safe houses, where Finch had stashed him after he had been patched up at the morgue. He had been here for the past week, looked after by a private nurse. Finch looked in on him once a day, but otherwise spent his time probably at the library, working the Numbers as best he could. Reese hadn’t seen much of him anyway.

He listened. There were footsteps, moving about in the kitchen, occasionally advancing into the living room, then turning back. That was what had alerted his subconscious. They weren’t the nurse’s footsteps, though. George was a gentle but very large man with a tread like a rhinoceros. These steps were much lighter, somewhat halting, with an odd rhythm to them. Finch.

As if he had sensed that Reese was awake, Finch now entered the bedroom, not like someone who cautiously checks if the occupant is still sleeping, but like someone who knows that he is not.

“Good morning, Mr Reese,” was his greeting, “I hope you slept well?” He moved to open the curtains. Reese blinked into the light. His head wasn’t entirely clear yet, but on the whole he felt better than he had in days.

“Where’s George?” he asked.

“I sent him home. I thought he would prefer to spend Christmas with his family, and I’m sure we can manage between ourselves now.”

John was inclined to agree, although he was slightly surprised that Finch would choose to spend time nursing him when he could just as well have delegated that task to someone else. He slowly pushed himself up into a sitting position. It hurt, but not too badly as long as he moved slowly.

“Would you like some breakfast?” Finch asked now.

“Yes, please. Can I have coffee?”

He hadn’t had any coffee since he came here. George, obviously under Finch’s instruction, had denied him even the smallest cup and had plied him with green tea instead, which in Reese’s opinion tasted like grass.

Finch looked at him dubiously.

“Well, maybe a little,” he conceded, “but no more for the rest of the day. It won’t do you any good in your current condition.”

He went into the kitchen to make the coffee. A bit for breakfast is better than nothing, thought Reese. Finch must be in a generous mood.

He looked towards the nightstand. There was no gun there, of course, even though he had instinctively grabbed for it. There was something else, though, something that hadn’t been there the night before. Something wrapped in red paper and tied with a narrow gold ribbon. John took it in his hands. It felt like a tiny box, maybe a jewelry box.

He was still turning it over in his hands when Finch came back with the smallest cup of coffee Reese had ever seen.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“It’s Christmas, Mr Reese. What do you think it is?”

“A Christmas present? For me?”

“Yes.” Finch looked at him with a small smile. “Merry Christmas.”

He put the cup on the nightstand and left again.

John pulled the ribbon off and unfolded the paper. It had been wrapped around very neatly, without the use of sticky tape. Inside was indeed a jewelry box. When John opened it, there was a pair of cufflinks resting on the black velvet lining. Pale turquoise stones, oval, mounted in silver. Turquoise in color, but not in material. Reese had never seen stones like this. They had a visibly crystalline structure, unlike any precious or semi-precious stone he could think of. He was still staring at them when Finch came back with a tray.

“What are they, Finch?” he asked.

“They’re petrified wood,” Finch answered. “Can you move over a bit so I can put the tray down?”

Reese put the open box back onto the nightstand and shuffled aside. He was still looking at the cufflinks, though. They were beautiful. And they were a Christmas present. For him.

“Thank you,” he said.

“You’re welcome. They should go nicely with your new suit.”

“What new suit?”

“The new suit that replaces the one you ruined by getting shot in it.”

“You should have charged that to Mark Snow.”

“How do you know I didn’t?”

Reese didn’t believe that Finch had done that, but there was a mischievous twinkle in his eye, so he wasn’t entirely sure. It was a nice thought at any rate.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t get you anything,” he said.

Harold shrugged. “You didn’t have much opportunity to go shopping,” he answered. Then he added in a low voice: “I’m just glad you’re alive.”

As if embarrassed by this sudden outbreak of emotion, he turned away and hurried back to the living room. John was surprised and touched. “I’m glad you’re alive” probably didn’t score very highly as a declaration of friendship, but coming from Finch it meant a lot. It was an indication that something had changed in their relationship. He would have to think about what exactly that might be. For now though, Reese turned to his breakfast. It wasn’t quite what he had wished for, but at least there were several slices of toast, some thinly buttered and some with jam, and a minuscule portion of scrambled egg. It was definitely an improvement over the last few days, when he had been fed some insipid invalid’s diet.

After Finch had cleared the plate and cup away, he returned to his laptop which he had set up in the living room, and Reese was left to make his own entertainment. John had no idea what Harold was working on. He hadn’t said anything about a new Number. But, he supposed, a multi-billion dollar business empire didn’t maintain itself.

Reese took a book from the nightstand and tried to read. It was, fittingly enough, Dickens’ “Christmas Carol”. Finch had thoughtfully provided him with a copy after learning to his dismay that Reese only knew the Muppets version. He couldn’t concentrate, though. His eyes kept falling shut, and so he eventually put the book away and let himself doze off. He listened to the familiar sounds coming from the other room. I might as well be in the library, he thought. It made him feel at home.

Home for him these days was not a physical place though. It was a soundscape, exactly what he was listening to now. It was the soft tapping of Finch’s fingers on the keyboard. The clink of china as Finch put his teacup down. Finch’s voice in his ear. These were the sounds that made him feel grounded. They connected him to something bigger than himself. No longer was he floating through the world without anything to hold on to. These sounds reminded him that he belonged somewhere, that he had a purpose, something to live for. He relaxed and eventually drifted off into sleep.

When he woke up again, a most delicious aroma was pervading the apartment. Something must be roasting the in oven. It couldn’t be a Christmas turkey, could it?

“Finch?” he called. “What are you doing?”

There was a clatter of dishes, then Harold came into his room.

“You’re awake, Mr Reese,” he said. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” John answered. “You’re not roasting a turkey, are you?”

“No, of course not. It would be ridiculous to make a turkey for only two people. I’m making roast chicken for our Christmas dinner.”

“I didn’t know you could cook, Finch.”

“I wouldn’t call myself a good cook, but I can make roast chicken. I’ve made it before, we…”

At the use of that pronoun Reese stared at him. Their eyes met for a second. Then the shutters came down with a bang. Finch left the room hurriedly, leaving Reese to stare bewildered after him.

In the kitchen Harold let himself fall onto one of the chairs, took his glasses off and buried his face in his hands. He had been careless, and now he was punished for it. He had been trying all day not to think of Grace too much, but for a moment his control had failed him. Most of the time the pain of losing her was reduced to a dull ache, shut up somewhere in a corner of his heart. But sometimes an incautious remark, a stray thought or even some innocent object could cause the pain to break out and flood his whole being in an instant.

Four times he and Grace had celebrated Christmas together, and they had been the best Christmases of his life. He had never really paid much attention to the holiday, but spending it with Grace had been so special. Even though she had family, the two of them had always spent Christmas day alone together, and he had made chicken for them as their Christmas dinner. The memories he had of those Christmases were so wonderful, making the contrast with this year all the more bitter. This was the first one without Grace. No, that wasn’t true. Last year he had been without her as well, but that Christmas had been so horrible, it was best forgotten altogether. He had been back in hospital for yet another surgery and was alternately going out of his mind with pain or floating in a drug-induced haze, which was almost as unpleasant. The few periods when he could think clearly weren’t any better, because even then, weeks after the event, his mind was still trying to process the simultaneous loss of his fiancée, his best friend and his intact body. No, last year’s didn’t even count as Christmas.

He had only himself to blame, of course. Only two days ago he had been at the park, staring across at Grace’s front door. There was a wreath on the door, of real holly, with bright red berries. They had always had one of those. He didn’t see Grace this time, but he knew exactly what the house looked like inside. Grace had always taken great pleasure in decorating it for the holidays, and it had always looked so lovely, so tasteful, nothing kitschy or over the top. Not because she made a special effort in order to impress their neighbors, but simply because this was what she liked. She didn’t go with changing color schemes or themes for her decorations, but the same old much-loved items came out of their boxes every year, with perhaps a couple new additions. One of her favorites was a band of angels, small wooden figurines, playing various instruments or singing from hymnsheets. He hadn’t really cared much about the festive trappings, but they made him happy because they made her happy.

And now it was all over, for both of them, and it was all his fault.

Finch jumped as his cellphone went off with an alarm. He straightened up and put his glasses back on. It was time to stop dwelling on the past and concentrate on the task at hand. He got up and peered through the oven door. Five more minutes, maybe, and then he and Mr Reese would have their Christmas dinner. He started to busy himself with plates, silverware and napkins.

Even though it went against all of Finch’s finer instincts, they had their meal in the bedroom, Reese from a tray on his bed like he had at breakfast, and Finch using the nightstand as a makeshift table. They had boiled potatoes and vegetables with their chicken, and Finch even allowed Reese a small portion of ice cream for dessert.

Reese was feeling well rested now and was looking for something to keep him occupied. He didn’t really fancy his book, and neither did he want to watch television. He supposed that Finch would want to return to his work, whatever that was, and was about to ask him if he had a spare laptop for him to play games on. But instead Harold asked him if he would like a game of chess.

They set up a travel set on the nightstand, and Finch pushed a wingback chair close to the bed to sit more comfortably while they were playing.

Finch won the first game fairly easily. Reese excused himself with the fact that he was just getting the feel of his opponent. However, the second game was won by Finch as well, largely through lulling Reese into a false sense of security, and then springing a devious trap which apparently he had been preparing all along.

Third time round, Reese had realized that sheer aggression wasn’t going to get him anywhere and he decided to employ a bit of deviousness of his own. Victory was duly his. They were just debating whether to set up for a fourth game, when Finch’s cell emitted a series of beeps and then erupted with a burst of classical music.

Finch snatched it up with a frown and answered: “Harold Wren.” But then his whole face lit up as he listened. “Yes, I can hear you fine,” he said. “Where are you?” He got up and moved into the other room to give himself some privacy. John couldn’t understand what he was saying, but he could still watch Harold through the open door. All through his conversation Harold had a fond, indulgent smile on his face that John had never seen before. Whoever was at the other end of the line, it had to be someone close to Harold. Someone who made him happy. John hadn’t even known that such a person existed.

When he came back, there was still a trace of that smile lingering on Harold’s face, but he didn’t make any comment. John was bursting with curiosity, but he didn’t want to spoil the atmosphere by asking questions that Harold would have found intrusive. He would do a bit of investigating when he got the opportunity.

Towards the evening John’s fever returned. Finch made sandwiches using leftover chicken, but Reese didn’t feel like eating much. The fever made him lethargic and drowsy, and so Finch helped him into a fresh t-shirt and sleep pants, fluffed up his pillows and drew the covers over him. He switched off the ceiling light, but when he moved to turn off the reading lamp on the nightstand, John said: “Can you leave it on?”

“As you wish.”

Harold turned to leave, but John mumbled: “Don’t go, Finch.”

He turned back, surprised, but said: “Very well, Mr Reese.”

He sat down in the armchair which was still standing beside the bed. John’s book was still there. He took it and started to read the old familiar story.

John was starting to drift off to sleep, but suddenly something occurred to him and he said: “That chicken was great, Finch.”

“Thank you.”

“Can you make pancakes as well?”

“Of course.”

“Can you make some? With maple syrup?”

“If you want. I’ll make some tomorrow. Sleep now, Mr Reese.”

John smiled and closed his eyes. Harold occasionally looked up from his book, and it wasn’t long before he could see that John was asleep.

Harold watched him for a few moments. He had resolved some time ago, even before John had been shot, that if they didn’t have a Number to work on, he would spend at least some of Christmas day with John. Harold knew better than most people the difference between solitude and loneliness. Most of the time he didn’t mind being alone, in fact he rather preferred it. But there was a difference between being by yourself through choice, and being alone because there was no one to be with. Christmas was a time when everybody else, no matter how they usually spent their lives, reached out to their loved ones and their friends. But for John, he knew, there was no one to reach out to. He didn’t like the thought of John spending this day on his own in some hotel room, where he couldn’t help but feel lonely, and where the temptation to fall back on the remedies he had employed in the past would be too great. Harold hadn’t really thought of it, but of course he didn’t have anyone to reach out to either. And if he was honest, he would have to admit that he had rather enjoyed having John’s company today.

He hadn’t been lying when he told John that he was glad he was alive. But he still didn’t quite understand why he did what he did to save him. When John was caught between the CIA snipers and the NYPD, the logical, rational thing would have been for Harold to cut his losses and abandon him. He wouldn’t have liked it, but it would have made more sense for him to save himself and continue their secret enterprise. But then John had called him to say goodbye, and to thank him, and logic had gone out of the window. Pure impulse had taken over, and he had put his foot down and raced to reach John just in time. Afterwards, with John in the car, he had at least enough rational thought left to enact the plan he had made in advance for a situation like that. It was inevitable that John would at some point be injured badly enough to need hospital treatment, but without an appropriate cover in place to avoid arousing suspicions, they would need a contingency. Harold had vetted a few candidates, and had settled on the surgeon working in the morgue as the one most likely to help them in exchange for an appropriate reward. This plan had the added advantage – Harold liked added advantages – that a capable surgeon’s talents would no longer go to waste. It had worked, and so they had ultimately ended up where they were now, celebrating Christmas together in the safe house.

What was John to him now? He had started out as an employee, an asset, certainly, but nothing more. But gradually he had become so important not just to their work, but to Harold himself, that he would do anything he could not to lose him. If he was really honest about his feelings, he would have to admit that he trusted John. Not with everything, not completely, only in very small increments, but more than he had trusted anyone in a long time. John frequently annoyed him by probing into Finch’s background and pushing at the boundaries he had set up to protect his privacy, but he hadn’t done anything that truly worried him.

“You’re going to have to trust someone at some point,” John had told him early in their partnership, and he had been right. Trust didn’t come easily to Harold, but you couldn’t go through life without trusting someone at least with some things. Whether John had intended to set himself up as the Someone to trust, Harold didn’t know. But that’s how it turned out, and even if his reason didn’t want to admit  it, his heart obviously knew better, and had compelled him to risk his own life to rescue John from the clutches of the CIA.

Harold sighed. It was all for the best, he supposed. It was much easier to work with a person you trusted at least to some extent. He would just have to be careful not to let his emotions run away with him again. But at the back of his mind was the irrepressible thought that after having lost one friend, he might have found another one.

John was fast asleep now. Harold could probably switch the reading lamp off and move into the other room. But he was only half way through “A Christmas Carol”, and even though he knew the story almost by heart, he didn’t want to stop reading now. The chair was quite comfortable, he would finish the book here before he moved anywhere.

Two hours later John woke up again. When he opened his eyes, the reading lamp was still on, and Harold was still sitting in his chair. But he wasn’t reading now. He had fallen asleep, holding the book and his glasses rather precariously in his lap. John propped himself up on one elbow and stretched out his other hand. He could just reach Harold, so very gently he took the book and the glasses out of his hands and set them down on the nightstand. He switched off the lamp, but there was enough light coming through the curtains for him to still see Harold. He lay down again, but kept his eyes open to watch Harold sleep.

He was happy that Harold was still there. With him at his side, he felt safe, protected somehow. Which was kind of strange, because if you felt you needed a protector, you wouldn’t choose someone as small and fragile as the birds from which he took his names. But it wasn’t protection from physical danger that John needed. As far as that was concerned, he could look after himself. What he felt about Harold was something else.

“In the end we’re all alone, and no one is coming to save you,” he had told Jessica. He had believed it, he had lived by it. Even after he had started to work for Finch, he had never expected to rely on anyone but himself. It was his task to save others, and he accepted that no one would do the same for him. But his statement wasn’t true anymore. Harold had come, risking death or capture (which would come to the same thing in the end). Harold had saved him, and now John was here, alive, safe, and no longer alone.

John looked at Harold, who continued to sleep peacefully in his chair, and tried to identify why he felt so safe and happy. His life had improved immeasurably in the last few months, because his work with Harold had given him a new purpose. But now he realized that he had been given something else. He had still thought of himself as alone, but now there was someone. Someone who cared about him enough to risk his own life to save him, someone who really had his back, someone he could rely on more that he had thought possible. It probably wouldn’t do to say it out loud, but he had gained a true friend. Harold could be as distant and prickly as he liked, John now knew that he really cared about him. And that was the best Christmas gift anyone could have given him.

John hoped that his recovery would not take much longer. He wanted to get back to work. It would feel different now, knowing that there was someone behind him, who would not abandon him under any circumstances. He really didn’t want Harold to put himself into such danger again for his sake, but the knowledge that Harold was there for him no matter what happened was very precious. And on top of everything Harold had given him a present, and made Christmas dinner for him, and spent the afternoon playing chess with him.

John smiled to himself and closed his eyes. No wonder he felt so happy. This was one of the best Christmases he had ever had.

"There’s only one thing that could make it even better", was his last thought before falling asleep: "I hope Harold doesn’t forget about the pancakes". 


End file.
